The Insider
by CamusianN7
Summary: The Biography Of a Salarian Spectre. (Written in short digestible chapters. Contains violence and later graphic depictions).
1. Chapter 1

The Insider

I am dying. I have been fortunate enough to reap a few rewards from my efforts, and my life has been full. Not so great, but diverse. One of emotion and caprice – typical wonted adventure and struggles.

My name is Parrin Malraux, Salarian Spectre. O' how grand a title. It would seem fitting of you to think this is as another grandiose tale of the exploits of some other hero. Yet I may disappoint you. In recent ages we have not only been in the presence of some true heroes, but, legitimately, true legends. This is a rare case, in fact, considering history. In this era – this cycle – we stopped a billions of years old insurmountable threat. I played a part – but my work folds in light of a certain Commander.

In this biography I may reveal some secrets that would have me killed. Though my position is fortunate as death will be nothing to me now.

I was born in 2158, on Sur'kesh, in a sleepy and quiet suburb of the capital – Talat. My parents were customary. Nothing un-ordinary, and almost rather tedious in their affectations of common practice. From youth I had a keen interest in philosophy, and specifically the myths of other species. Since the advent of humanity unto the galactic scene, we have had some sort of resurgence in nearly all fields of the intellectual and social game. They are a tenacious and head-strong species. This can be at their detriment, but they have had an undeniable impact on the galaxy in the past 60 years. Maybe more in 60 years than the turians, asari, or salarians have had in 1000. Commander Shepard is now, of course, legendary. With that amount of influence and sway, the goals of the now defunct Cerberus would seem somewhat, somehow, justifiable. Though I dare not go so far. One's of supposed noble goals but disgusting methods are not commonly successful – intellectually at least.

With this, I have had an almost fetishistic fascination with Homo sapiens. This is odd granted salarian biology and rigorous cultural conditioning, but my difference is a point of slight pride. I even had a brief but thunderous affair with a particular Systems Alliance captain. The most marvellous of women.

But that is a story for later.

At age 16 I completed a thesis on ancient human philosophy (neo-platonism in a bohemian relation to the 20th century French existentials) and became a political liaison to the System's Alliance – via a department of The Special Tasks Group. I had some basic military training with STG, but trained myself, daily, in a specific and ancient form of salarian martial art called '_forvsar'_, as well as some human art forms from the country of Japan.

My political duties consisted of rather monotonous administration requests – more distinctly issues of human immigration and asylum to salarian colony worlds (and vice versa), as well as mutual military co-operation between the Alliance and the Salarian Union.

Politics is a career for the mediocre. It is a sly game of profligate organs with little real life blood. Not much needs to be said of it that has already been said. It was dull; so I exercised daily in a gym in the upper wards of the Citadel, I continued reading a wide library of various old books, and worked up relations with many contacts in various cafés on the Presidium. This was my life for a few years. No real adventures, the same scene Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.

One day, the stage set collapsed; and I was near oblivion. Something of a terrible dream-state. The task was exposed for a travesty in concern of salarian lifespan. Yet a stroke of indifferent wonder made its way to alleviate my industrial stupor.

Some day in the summer of 2180, there was a (now covered up and forgotten) small skirmish in the lower end of the Zakera ward. A nefarious group of pirates from the Terminus Systems had smuggled themselves onto the Citadel and, for no particular reason other than criminal desperation, had kidnapped some turian shopkeeper, her staff, and some customers (including a salarian diplomat) – holding them for ransom. A C-sec officer was seriously injured and the pirate gang had locked themselves in the electronics shop. The leader of this posse, a staunch asari maiden with an eccentrically gruff voice, demanded 60,000 credits for the release of their 16 hostages. Citadel security were trying dismally to deal with the situation.

This is were I came in.

I was unaware of the on-going struggle when I stumbled behind the shop. The diplomat currently stuck inside was late in collecting some confidential papers, so I took it upon myself to deliver them. At the back entrance, a C-Sec officer updated me on the situation.

"There's a situation here friend. Sorry. No access."

Needless to say I was bothered. These papers were important and I did not want them languishing on my desk.

In a strike of uncertain inspiration, I moved. I am not sure what reasoning I contended with that day, but I let go to the unsympathetic irrationality of my egotistic sense.

I bundled the papers into the pocket of my jacket (yes, I was one of the few salarians to own a trench-coat), and sneaked past the oblivious officer and some of his colleagues. Somehow nobody noticed.

I forced my way through the door by breaking the door-pad (one learns a few tricks in STG), and tip-toed into the back room.

The room was dimly-lit and narrow, a back entrance to something of a storage compartment. A burly batarian stood at the other door at the end of the narrow room into the main shopping area. Hiding behind a stack of boxes, I took my chance to incapacitate him.

I crept up slowly and then leapt at his face, forcing it against the wall. There was a sickly cracking sound as I judged the punch to his face in a way that resulted in him colliding with a shelf corner on the end wall. He fumbled in a heap of pain – too dizzy to react coherently, he fainted. I shoved him into a box with a brief struggle, picked up his dilapidated Avenger assault rifle, then proceeded to hide behind the shop counter as I stepped into the main room.

The captain was shouting incomprehensibly – in an almost drunken haze. Her men asked her to repeat her orders, which only made her more angry – resulting in a biotic kick to an unfortunate human's testicles.

At that moment the gang turned around to notice their batarian friend was not guarding the back door of the shop.

"Galk!", shouted the asari (her name has left my memory). With no response from "Galk" she strode towards the door – hitting a hostage across the face as she passed. I had to act. Quickly. I thought I had no chance; what was I doing? I try to embody the Salarian maxim of winning a war before it had began, and acted in a varren-like rage.

As the asari turned around the corner of the counter, I ran towards her in a rambling movement. The butt of my newly-acquired gun impacted her face with a satisfying click. Taking advantage of the shock I jumped-kicked the woman as she staggered backwards, distorting her face as her nose broke against my foot. With her on the floor I, foolhardily, shot her in the leg. Her howls of pains triggered the late reaction of her compatriots, who now blundered towards me. A swift shot from the Avenger hit my first target, the human's knee cap shattered. Somehow I moved at lightning pace to the other side of the shop, ending up guarding a hostage in the corner. As I sprinted I had, with scientific precision, swung the rifle into a pirate's turian's neck – winding him. I shot another member of the gang in the stomach then took out another with a few swings. There were a few of them, all well armed, but somehow I was working easily. The hostages were in shock. They screamed as some mad salarain in reckless abandon calculatingly took-out their oppressors.

While writhing on the floor, the asari fired a biotic warp towards me. I slid underneath the warp with a quick step, and slid into the stomach of the asari leader. The biotic impact reverberated the wall behind us. In the awkward position on the floor, I managed to push her down a step behind the counter, and finally crippled the women with an ugly kick to the face.

Silence. The gang were out of commission. Somehow I had done it. This daredevil act of wishful showmanship had actually worked. I got up and tended to one of the hostages. "Your papers", I whispered to the salarian diplomat as I passed him (obviously handing him the papers). After bidding the freed hostages well, I went towards the door

Yet before I could, a high-ranking C-Sec officer barged in and pushed me.

"Who the f*ck are you?! What was that!?" shouted the angry turian with distinctive red face paint.

"I was just taking care of your business", I said casually, gently pushing past him. Another officer grabbed me and tried to force me into hand-cuffs, but fortunately, before she could arrest me, a charming and suave looking salarian walked purposefully towards me. He told the officer to let me go. The officer complied begrudgingly, and walked into the shop to help the hostages.

"That was reckless", the salarian quipped. "But...very surprising. We have been after those pirates for 7 months, and you clean them up in less than 20 seconds."

I was modest. "Well, I was not palpably sure what I was doing. I have no clue what motivation was governing me."

"Don't give me that", he replied. "How you moved...such grace, it was like a dance. Simply exquisite. Who are you? Did you...Did you happen to train in STG?"

"Yes", I responded. "But I work in administration. This is not exactly my forte."

"Forte?! You made that look like an art! Don't be so humble."

"Okay, okay", I said. "I am Parrin Malraux. Political liaison for STG"

"My name is Jondum Bau. I'm with Special Tactics and Recon."

A Spectre? I was in awe. A childish sense in me was tingling – I wanted to ask so many questions. But I restrained myself.

"How you fought in there. That was beyond the skill of some admin. This might sound mad, but why don't you come with me. I might have a job for you".

"Are you sure? You hardly know me?"

"And vice versa", Bau said. "Take it or leave it."

What could I do? I had to accept. I followed Jondum down the spacious corridors of Zakera. He complimented my jacket and we participated in small talk. That day would be the start of a grand and dangerous journey. This, one may say, is where my story truly begins.


	2. Chapter 2

The Insider

Chapter 2

What was this wave of fortunate chance? An irregular, and almost unpremeditated raid, upon a desultory hostage situation had put me in the sights of a Spectre.

We continued to discuss our positions. I told him about my STG training and added some of the details of my work placement; its boredom, its tedious frolics. The pandering to ungrateful diplomats. He only spoke up to ask a few questions, and nodded continually. We then wandered with conviction towards the direction of the salarian embassy. I knew something rather excellent was going to happen.

Before this, I was starting to feel like a chauffeur of my own corpse. A serf to modern agonies. We would like to think that we want to avoid troubles of conflict – and general problems – but we have a basic point. Despite our distinct terms, we want particular problems.

Why are we sure that well-being is what is good for us species of the galaxy – so unmistakeably? Is this a deceptive question? Prosperity is not always pleasing, but then what is the opposite of mass impediment?  
>Ah, people of our age: have you seen those in suffering with a goodness that ought to be in prosperity? Sometimes one is passionate about their suffering, their struggles, their ability to fight. Suffering is their substance, their pedestal. It seems unseemly to love only well-being, and whether it amounts to a positive or negative thing, the destruction and tenderising of objects can be a perverse pleasantry in many times. I am not standing up for suffering here, or for profound well-being, but the diversity of emotion and caprice. How would we react if removed of a right to feel anger? Anger is adverse, but what is living without it? Let us think?<br>Suffering is often that of doubt, and what are these millenniums without doubt? Here, I am acting as a valet to past edicts.  
>We preach against it, but why would all our galactic governing organs and our various representatives ever really give up the chaos and destruction from which they work and profit, and what would be the conclusion without it?<br>We declare that our consciousness is the supreme cause of our misfortune and suffering, but we love it and would never really give it up for Zen, Nirvana or whatever gratification. This suffering conscience may be a toil, and a trial, but never would we let it slip for clinical arithmetic and care, or for nothingness to linger in - without conscience.

Thus, I wanted adventure.

Bau led me into the embassy – I pointed to my cramp office as we past it with a nod, and we greeted the receptionist. We continued through into another area that I was unfamiliar with – past some C-sec offices, and up to the Spectre requisitions office. I had obviously never been before, and was apprehensive. Bau tapped the door and it opened.

"Wait here for a second," he said, as he walked in and the door closed in front of me. Two seconds later after he had pressed a few buttons, the door opened again and he invited me in. Following him down the corridor – weapons lining the wall, he lead me into the main area and made a call on the panel at his front. It was to my commander. A strict and unsavoury fellow whom had never really enjoyed my company. I believe he disapproved of my peculiar taste for other species (though at this point it had never led unto anything. That happens later). He was the sort of person, like many, who really wanted to cling, but there was nothing to cling to.

He tapped the panel, and after a few more seconds my superior, Commander Fornal Arleck, live from Sur'Kesh, appeared as a hologram on the QEC.

"Bau", he bemoaned gruffly. "What is?...Malraux? Why is he there?"

"It is nice to see you too. But yes, I called you as I think Parrin here is in need of a transfer. You see, he is spectacular, and his...talents, are wasted in STG administration. I am willing to have him work for me in my little task-force."

It need not be said that Arleck was aghast. He had always wanted the illusive and questionable freedom of Spectrehood, and the fact that a trainee of his, one who he had not much of a liking for, was to be removed from his imposed monotony and put into the hand of a man he envied, annoyed him."

"Erm...Malraux does some valuable work in his department, he..."

I felt quite bedevilled by Arleck's constant put-downs, so, in bad taste and out of place, I spoke up.

"You have always had a rather unnecessary quibble with me Commander. I think my placement under your command tried you. As if I was some sort of upstart? Maybe beating you in that hand-to-hand combat practice made you more of a cloaca?"

Bau chuckled under his breath.

"How dare you!..." Arleck proclaimed. In good fortune Bau impeded his rant.

"I don't think I needed to call you really. A simple e-mail could have done. Malraux will now be under my command. I will inform _your_ superiors. Spectre authority. Farewell Arleck. Bau out."

With a click, the hologram fizzled away.

Amazed, I lent back against the railing to steady myself. I was now going to be working with a Spectre? How? This was all rather fast.

"It will take a few days to sort some paperwork, though I can speed it up. If you make your own preparations, clean up your office, say goodbyes, whatever you need to do, you can meet me outside the office here at 5:00 on the 27th. I now have some business to sort out. So until we next meet".

He smiled at me and patted my shoulder: then gesturing me towards the direction of the door.

I rushed to my office to make a few calls and arrangements.

The next two days passed slowly. I need not work, so I sat in the embassy bar sipping drinks, trying to relax in the oddly shaped chairs. I kept quiet about my new work of course. I had a surprising lack of friends to speak to, and I wished for a change in that considering my new work. Of course I would make a few enemies also.

My toils here would be nothing but a slow trek to rediscover, through detours of art, some great images whose presence would open my heart.


	3. Chapter 3

The Insider

Chapter 3

Bau was already at the Spectre requisitions office when I arrived. Bau still worked in STG in some capacity, and the issues of transferring departments was settled with surprising ease. Spectres usually attract more attention than STG due to mere prominence, but the evident upside of less legislative bulwarks would make up for that. This would be like working for a STG strike-force, but with more free reign.

Bau told me to carry light as he would provide me with necessities and provisions – so I only brought my jacket, a few books, reports, anthologies, and some identification papers. Bau was holding a weapons crate under his right arm, his own weapons under the other, and some papers were clasped in his mouth. As I approached he fumbled the weapons crate into my possession and removed the papers.

"Have a look," he said, sternly but not unsympathetically, pointing at the box. With a fiddle the box opened to reveal a prototype assault rifle and a new looking pistol I had not seen before. I should not really give you, dear reader, too much details about these weapons (at least one of them), but they would now be considered obsolete. This happened in 2180, and of course thermal clips had not manifested yet (which is a funny story. I once had an argument with Bau about their usefulness and versatility. Another story for later). Nonetheless these weapons were quite exquisite. The rifle was some STG experiment that had, supposedly, done rather well in field tests. It was a adaptable rifle that could also work well as a mid-range sniper. The pistol turned out to be quite standard Spectre equipment, the equivalent to a modern M-3 Predator.

We wandered off to the docking bay to find Bau's ship. As we did we encountered a member of Bau's small crew. A dear friend to this day.

A short, be-speckled, plump and light-skinned human with inconvenient looking glasses (some antiquated fixture for improved eyesight that some humans wear) was staggering towards us at a rather un-ordinary pace. She bumped into us and fell before our feet, throwing her papers everywhere.

"Oh dear, I am so, don't mind me, Its fine, don't, please..." She cowered before us in fright, fearing to look up from her mess of papers. I remember looking down to see the short, unkempt red hair sitting sluggishly on her head.

"Calm down Sylvia. It's me, Jondum. This is the man I was talking to you about. Parrin Malraux.

"Oh...Parrin," she finished picking up her papers and straightened her clothes. "I'm, er, Sylvia Pentrosse. I'm the power control engineer on...on the Parvaque."

"The Parvaque?" I enquired.

Bau clarified that the Parvaque was his ship. A salarian reconnaissance frigate with state-of-the-art (and classified) stealth technology (which would eventually be surpassed by the SSV Normandy SR1 and SR2).

It had two decks, the first containing the entrance, bridge, crew quarters at the rear, and command area – the second containing a small kitchen area and mess, and medical cupboard – and a cargo hold with an armoury. Nevertheless it was more than adequate.

Sylvia Pentrosse was, and still is, one of the most skilled engineers I have ever seen. She is clumsy, unpredictable, and bumbling in speech. But she has a knowledge of thermodynamics and biochemistry surpassing most scholars or professors.

The Parvaque was small for a frigate, was reasonably armed, and it was managed by a small skeleton crew. Including Bau at command, myself, and Sylvia, there were only 12 crew members. Most were salarians. Engineers, a navigator, pilot and co-pilot, as well as a mess sergeant and a few experienced STG soldiers.

Amongst the engineers there was one Gepal Sarhje. An uncommonly white faced, over-joyous, and rather feminine salarain with a penchant for puzzles and particle physics. He worked alongside Sylvia in engineering, rather fittingly.

During breaks they would make their way to the mess table on the second deck and play chess (a human strategy game I eventually became fond of), or Kepesh-Yakshi.

Our mess sergeant was an insular, and often quiet, _former _STG lab specialist called Zesko. Nobody paid much attention to him unless they wanted food, and we dared not ask why he was thrown out of his laboratory back on Sur'kesh – or the details of his previous work. All we knew was that he cooked a brilliantly good Dengi-swap worm soup. (for any non-salarian readers, Dengi-swamp worm soup is a rare delicacy from the colony of Monnovai). He also had a secret stash of coort, a traditional drink, similar to human wine, drank for many salarian holidays and ceremonies, which the crew would sometimes try to sneak into.

Our pilot and co-pilot were were Farwan and Mermot Yasurn, respectively. Both had a similar dark hew and enjoyed a rather tedious repartee of dated turian jokes, one of which they would relay every-time you saw them.

And then there was Orral Gilaren and Ellorn Urc, our resident soldiers and general ship-hands – and Utal Narra, our navigator and communications specialist (a distant relative of Dalatrass Narra). Much to their annoyance, Bau would more often work in small squads which were less noticeable – forgoing their company in missions for the majority of the time.

Bau is a great man, but not one of peculiar strategy. This is probably why he pursued Spectrehood – he had a diverse freedom to perform differing missions, sometimes very small, and sometimes with over 7 men (as we unfortunately had no female crew members apart form Sylvia).

The trio, as the human phrase goes, our "meat and potatoes", were often watching news vids and otherwise filling their day with obscure salarain logic games. Thankfully they always took their duties seriously.

Gilaren specialised in infiltration and favoured a sniper rifle. Urc was a customary soldier, large for a salarian, and very, very useful in a skirmish; while Narra the navigator would also occasionally accompany us on ground-reconnaissance missions with his trusty vintage Locust SMG.

When I first entered the Parvaque, everybody seemed as if they were all doing the same job at first. People jogged awkwardly in the small confines of the ship. Yet the personal cabins were nothing to complain about, and privacy was assured by simple folding-plastic dividing walls in the small crew quarters at the back of the first deck.

But the most distinctive figures were the two turians - Warric and Darrix Accillus, twins and stereotypical soldiers, who would spend most of their time in the cargo bay polishing weaponry and studying battle reports. Warric was an explosives specialist and chemist. He had interesting conversations with Sylvia about certain chemical properties that my memory has oddly forgone – especially for salarian standards. Darrix was always a little slow - intellectually, but he certainly made up for it this with his tenacity and battle-field prowess. Not to mention a resolute grasp of heavy-weapons use beyond the standard of most Alliance admirals. I am not sure where they are today. I think they retired to help homeless turian children in Palaven's capital Cipritine. After the Reaper war.

Despite their charming militaristic façades, they were oddly some of the most caring individuals I have ever known. A rare class of person willing to help with nearly everything. This makes me wish I still stayed in contact with them – maybe I will try to find them some time. With what time I have left.

This crew were my family for over 6 years. I am still on close terms with most. From those first unsure days, from random incident to the accomplice of a Spectre, I could not think of what time had in its pocket for me. The day after I had been introduced to the crew, asked questions, performed checks, I settled into my duties. I was now a tactical combat expert and diplomatic advisor to Jondum Bau. But an _advisor_ with the ability to cut red-tape with a good kick and a well-placed shot.

Of course, I was also Bau's new project. Discussions with Warric revealed that Bau would have little projects, most often trivial, which he would always intend to finish before he jumped to the next tree for another. This time, he had the insight to choose something more serious, but he would still stay to it. I very much have to thank him for that.

Gilaren, Urc, and Narra were envious at first of my presence. Not sure why Bau would pick some new-comer of the street, who happened to have the correct credentials, over them in smaller, more covert missions. We put them at ease by saying the greater rotation of individuals we have for missions, the better. Stagnant waters of tension still resided, but the biggest polyp of resent was cleared.

A few hours after my premier acquaintances, we were leaving the docking bay and speeding quickly out of the Widow System. Soon, a buzzing came from a panel in the centre command module - Bau came over and pressed it to stop its droning. After enquiring I found that it was a QEC, but not one with holographic imaging. It was a less expensive model for cross-galaxy real-time typing – forgoing obvious bandwidth issues from e-mails and extranet communications. The salarian councillor, Councillor Valern, was updating us on some problem on Erinle, in the Hourglass Nebula in the Terminus.

A large salarian colony was trying to restore biodiversity to the planet, and were right up until the Reaper war; setbacks were rife (although at the time of writing, I have reason to believe that my salarians brethren have successfully rejuvenated a small area of the planet with the aid of Burngrass [a soil-enriching and adaptable weed native to Sur'Kesh - a major export]).

As for the time concerned, mineral mining operations that were, and still are, in spite of environment, successful, were being disturbed by an unspecified group of raiders.

With that we hurriedly rushed to the Osun System to investigate.


	4. Chapter 4

The Insider

Chapter 4

On the way to Erinle, constant bits and spatters of intel where being fed through the QEC and other terminals. The fastidious salarian ways of "knowledge is power" are very much useful, and we would spend a while gathering and postulating our strategies and action. The issue was not so pressing, and so the closest STG strike-force was not being garnered to take a look. Bau also had some personal connection to the miners on the planet, which he had relented from revealing as of yet.

A small but vicious group of human pirates, calling themselves _The Krimson Moons_, were trying to make an illicit profit by filtering resources through their own channels, and into the Terminus black market. Their methods were simple, a basic extortion racket, terminating or otherwise removing a few key individuals, and shifting the resources. Their planning was not so well-thought.

It only took a few hours after the relay jump to reach the Hourglass Nebula, and we were soon orbiting Erinle. Narra and Gilaren wanted to plan more before we took action, but Bau thought differently. We knew where the pirates were located, we knew their approximate numbers, and we knew their history of published criminal activities.

_The Krimson Moons _were headed by an ugly troll of a human suffering from heterophoria and owning only one hand. His name was Paul Speare; his parents had settled on Horizon during the early years of humanity's expansion, he lost his hand via a farming accident involving a ploughing machine, and he had a keen interest in canines (mammals of Earth.) He had a large picture of an aggressive looking 'dog' in his quarters, above his bed, on the makeshift, slapdash converted cargo ship that _The Moons_ had acquired from another band of raiders near Omega earlier that year.

As one may see, we knew enough.

* * *

><p>Orbiting the planet, their ship soon appeared on our sensors. We were quite ready for this, yet even despite running the monotonous paperwork through the respective channels for this to happen: despite the days of briefs, quick and mostly uneventful meetings, and the drab and well-worn legislative tasks, the crew, all except Bau, were wary of me. This would be my first test of real action.<p>

The ship was set low, very close to Erinle's atmosphere – a few life-signs were detected on-board, and we knew of a way to quickly, unsuspectingly, enter the ship in a daring guerilla raid. We would then adorn protective environmental suits, and zip down to the small mining facility.

Bau gave a nod of his head and Gilaren, Narra, and Urc skipped with an odd sophistication in his wake, towards the cargo bay downstairs and into the armoury. All of our military trained personnel – those trained in the field – were attending the raid. Warric and Darrix were already, as they usually resided, in the armoury suiting up.

The salarians were already attired before I got down.

"Rather slow," Urc jibbed. The turian twins equipped their habitual weaponry (an assault rifle accompanied with a pistol and/or an SMG), as did the salarians. Everyone was issued with an omni-blade attachment for their omni-tools, and given basic rations and other gear.

I removed my affectation of a jacket, which was starting to irk Gilaren, and went behind a partition to "suit up" in the jet black body-armour provided. I grabbed my rifle and my pistol, and was almost ready.

I would have been, if I had not seen a translucent box with a glimmer permeating the grey tone of the dusty glass. It was irregular that the box was slightly dirty – everything else looked pristine, top of the range, the best one could buy. But this unswept oblong attracted me.

I strode over to it to examine further. The salarians, besides Bau who was making weapons checks, stared at me in confusion. I jiggled the box's grubby lid and it flung open with a small puff of dirt. Inside, it was old, slightly unpolished, but sharp and of the highest quality.

It was a sword. Aged, but still lethal. In matter of fact it was a traditional ceremonial salarian sabre called an _Alvorig_. It was used in ritualistic after-hunting feasts in the jungles of Sur'kesh – the purpose of it was for carving the meat off of the kill, commonly a Zsarrka (zsarrkas were insectisoid, bulbous, almost-biepidal omnivorous creatures, standing two feet tall, with seven eyes and an ugly completion. Though they tasted well enough).

I did not approve of these dated hunting practices, especially the theological moralising of its roots, but I had to admit that it was beautiful.

I levered the sword, decorated with an artistic but practical and subtle hand-guard, from the box. It was of typical length, and still looked new in spite of its accommodation.

"What are you doing?" Questioned Narra. Gilaren nodded his head in a way to say he was expressing the same sentiment.

"I...quite like this", I answered. Bau had finally looked around from his own preparations to see the spectacle. He grew an inward smile.

"Ah. You found the Alvorig. That is also quite a rare one."

"You're...You are not going to use that are you?" Inquired Darrix, who had also now taken a look away from his preparations.

"Well...Why shouldn't he?" Bau explained. "It is not doing anything in its box, and you can't deny its usefulness. It is probably one of the most deadly blades in salarian history. Go ahead Parrin," he chuckled. "Just don't loose it."

I nodded and slid the Alvorig into a surprisingly fitting place on my belt. I triggered a snort from Urc as the intercom began to crackle.

"ETA 6 minuetes", came Farwen's voice over the comm.

Exactly on cue we approached _The Moons_ ship. Off-guard, they had only seemed to notice us much too late. The Parvaque stopped abruptly and penetrated part of the ship's hold, extending an invasive docking tube (of top-secret STG design) for use to scuttle along into the hostile vessel.

"GO!" Shouted Bau.

In quick succession we marched down the tube (unofficially called the HTV Tube) behind the Spectre in a businesslike advance . I was stuck in the middle of the group, with Bau at point. We reached the ship and burst through into the other cargo hold like an infection – spurring in, in surprise.

To add to the surprise, the mercenaries had not likely seem such a thing before. The jagged protrusion of the HTV Tube cutting with an unnatural efficiently into the ship's hold in a perfect rectangle, sealing it with a gluey compound after it cut.

A few mercenaries where already in the hold, but their line was weak, their weapons outmoded, and their gear cheap.

Bau shot with a calculated cold-bloodedness, dispatching the first merc before he was aware. Darrix was out next and disposed of the other by lodging the butt of the rifle in her face.

As we had all flooded in, we took defensive positions after removing three others, and waited for Bau's call.

It was silent. We thought we had an advantage, and we did in part as we had them off valence – unaware. Yet there was no sign of further movement.

"What?" Darrix groaned.

"Go forward. Point R23 position," Bau ordered Narra, using official STG call-signs. Textbook.

Narra was now at the doorway near the end of the hold. It lead up to the command centre. He made a scan with his omni-tool and relayed the readings.

"Eleven hostiles. L12, N44, and L6 positions. Combat drones. Three Hahne-Keder mechs at R5," Narra muttered.

"Okay." Bau whispered. "Flash-bangs, then clear. You know the positions, the layout of the area... Let's go."

The seven man squad trotted in synch up to the door and up the stairs. Carefully peering from the corner, the mercenaries could been seen, waiting anxiously, almost trembling.

Bau nodded at Warric and he released the grenades. Gilaren and Urc did the same. The familiar white flash emanated with a few shouts retorting the explosions.

Urc pointed his spindly finger in the direction of the hostiles and we jumped up into the CIC. We were in exemplary localities. The turians, both at each other's sides, took the right side and fired a barrage of bullets, straight on point. The salarians took the left, Narra sabotaging a mech causing a comical intrusion upon its mechanical ally – followed by a small malfunction and a feeble explosion.

Bau and I stood next to each other, targeting the mercs nearer the middle, behind the navigation station. A shot from my rifle lunged through the eye of the unfortunate human, causing him to wriggle on the floor in blinding pain. He was finished clinically with another shot.

From flash bang grenades, to firing positions, the command deck was cleared in under eight seconds.

* * *

><p>It was eerily quiet again.<p>

"You see," Bau said lowly. "If you should need to kill. Try to do so efficiently."

Warric nodded in respect, though the look on Urc's face seemed not to agree.

"There are no other life-signs aboard the ship", Narra articulated.

We scoured the rest of the ship, acquiring any useful resources along the way.

I walked up to the captain's cabin. His paraphernalia was scatter across the room as if there was some sort of struggle. The dog painting was at an angle, hanging precariously off the wall, its subject looking bemused.

Gilaren stumbled into the room, panting slightly while rubbing his cranial horn. In some past skirmish, he revived an injury that had resulted in a long scar starting at the top of the horn, and running all the way down his face, the dull blemish piercing his dull green skin with an off-white line. According to him, it still ached periodically and nothing seemed to truly alleviate the blunt irritation.

"It's clear. But we found some logs on one of the terminals. Look's like Speare and at least twelve others are down at the mining facility. They seem to be oblivious of our presence, but we should work quickly."

He strutted away silently. He was still cautious and disapproving of me at this point – and I had not yet proven my worth to him.

* * *

><p>The seven of us hastened back to the cargo hold and through the TV437 Tube.<p>

Bau satrted spouting orders. Our entrance caught Sahje off-balance, who was eating in the cargo bay. He unwillingly relinquished some of his soup at the surprise of Bau's orations.

The Yasurn brothers acknowledge the orders and piloted the Parvaque further towards the planet.

Time to spend this 'Paul Speare' a real visit.


	5. Chapter 5

The Insider

Chapter 5

Bau knew more about this Paul Speare than he was openly revealing. In retrospect his reasons were quirky, but accountable. Speare was more than just some common mercenary captain.

I distinctly remember, after leaving The Krismon Moon's vessel, how he casually walked to the end of the hold, and up the stairs to the command deck without a word.

Warric look befuddled at this moment, staring at me afterwards with a questioning gaze.

* * *

><p>I decided to rush up and follow him, only to catch him near the kitchen already sipping a drink. I never questioned whether it was alcoholic, but he looked unprofessional. Maybe that notion is passé? But never mind. He looked in my direction and gestured me over. Zesko, our mainly silent mess sergeant fiddled with a cupboard trying to ignore us; he caught a large group of cans rather too swiftly as they fell from their abode. We never found out his secrets, the reaction was quick, almost militaristic, a lot could be read into the small movement – its graces and intricacies.<p>

Bau slid a bottle across the small table in my direction, I shook my head in decline. The commotion and scuffle of mission preparations emanated beneath us.

The text looked batarian, strange choice of beverage I thought. The dialect was not up-to-date though, the bottle look very dated, and even though I was familiar with the more common of batarian languages and dialects, it was hard to string the lettering into a coherent sentence. It seemed to say something alike to 'Ale fish good sipping'. Something was obviously lost in translation.

"This is a batarian ale", Bau slurred. "It is, well, it was, local delicacy from a small town in southern Khar'shan. It is very trying to get hold of it now after the batarians left the citadel. It is so old in fact that that its linguistic nuances are often met with befuddlement even by native batarians."

I asked if we had a visual translation device anywhere. Zesko slammed something onto the table much too quickly for comfort. He must had overheard me and Bau and made the assumption.

The visual translator (often rarer than conventional speech translators – and used for psycholinguistic research processes) was an 'E-Ling V11' model. Serrice Council. I did not know that they even made translators up to that point.

I admired the device for a few seconds. "This looks like it is rather expensive Bau."

"I stole it", Zesko retorted, in a rare outburst of conversation. Bau looked taken aback, but shrugged it off.

"Well go on then", Bau gesticulated.

I moved the visual translator up to my eyes, and it immediately started working. It took longer than it usually would to frame the lexis, but after a few seconds the letters, re-jumbled on another part of the screen, said 'ArKarl-Root Ale with Bat Ridged Fish Extract. Good for for sipping'.

I gave a chuckle. Bat Ridged fish? I searched my memory for where I had seen the name before.

With thanks to the salarian gift of eidetic memory, I remembered the information from a rare book of aquatic life I read at university. Bat Ridged fish were a rare species of fish native to Khar'shan. Small – 4 inches long, bright yellow, and with a noticeable long red ridge along their spines.

"Wait." I said. "Bat Ridged fish went extinct 160 years ago."

"Quite", Bau responded. "And due to this drink as well - I think. ArKarl were notorious for their unsustainable practices. Like most Hegemony run businesses. Batarian State Arms is a prime example. ArKarl are also 'extinct' now."

Bau explained how he found the bottle in some dingy dive of a market on Ilium, deep within its sordid bowels. It caught his interest and he bought it. Bat Ridged fish extract was once one of the best known nutritional preservatives in the galaxy. It is easy to see how that acted as a catalyst to the fish's unfortunate demise – and a stimulus of ArKarl's unfettered and unsustainable practices. Once the fish disappeared, ArKarl followed.

At least the bottle would last for another 40 years or more.

"I remember the conversation I had with the salesman," Bau relayed. "We spoke about universal translators for an hour."

* * *

><p>I had always admired the ingenuity of universal translation. Linguistics was something taken for granted, yet probably the most advanced area of technology in the galaxy. Real-time communication with the disparate species and languages of the galaxy via a small and discreet box, or chip, attached to a belt - or collar. Beautiful in its paradoxical simplicity.<br>The less expensive option of course is to have a translation module installed into an omni-tool. As we were too lavish and grand for that, we had more sophisticated separate models.

We were interrupted by our co-pilot, Mermot Yasurn. "We are about to enter Erinle's atmosphere gentlemen. Brace for impact" he said, comical as always.

With that we went back to the armoury. Detailed plans and information of the location flared and droned on omni-tools.

Darrix was quibbling over a choice between the versatility of the N7 Valiant (a 'gift' from a friend of Urc's) or the punch and explosiveness of the Krysae. Eventually he opted for the latter.

Bau trotted down the steps after me – the drink seeming not to affect him.

The squad seemed annoyed, bizarrely, not to have dispatched the whole gang in ten seconds, like we managed to do with the small consignment on the ship. A slightly insignificant worry.

The Parvaque shuddered as it entered the atmosphere. "Entering Erinle. She's nice and open – didn't reject my advances. No mood music or alcohol required..." said Farwan in a particularly gross manner – happening to cause a few sniggers and tutting from the rest of us. We heard a muffled scuffling and a "Shut up Yasurn!", as Sylvia switched off the comm. She often worked near the bridge, and would have to walk in herself to turn off the intercom due to the pilots' penchant for unnecessary joking on load-speaker.

* * *

><p>Erinle may have been a garden world, but it was in its final stages of habitation – supporting little biodiversity but insect pest species and toxic algae. The soil acidity was still healthy enough for agriculture nonetheless.<p>

The lively spaceport that orbited the planet was currently at its other axis, a convenience for The Krimson's raiding.

The Parvaque slipped into the upper skies of the garden world, slowing to accommodate the pressure.

A mining facility was illustrated on our sensors – and a few small shuttles had landed haphazardly at its entrance. As for the workers, there was no sign of them. With what we could assume from our information, we now believed it was a hostage situation.

"Has anyone sent out an emergency contact from the mine?" inquired Gilaren.

"No", Warric answered. "I don't think that flying so low to the facility is viable either. They will see us, obviously."

Urc interrupted. "How aware are they of our own raid?"

"They shouldn't be," Bau extrapolated. "Though if they contact the ship, Mermot took the courtesy of sending a scrambled message of general chatter and typical automated responses from the ship on all frequencies. So if they contact the ship, they will receive a VI message – nothing suspicious, and a sneaky virus that will fry their communications."

The intercom buzzed again. "You're welcome", said Mermot.

"How are we approaching this?" Darrix questioned.

"We jump". Bau said bluntly.

I noticed a group of parachutes in a corner cabinet and meandered over to grab them, hastily slipping one around me and fastening it.

I gave Darrix another and he nodded, enlightenment dawning.

"Oh dear", mumbled Urc.

"Pardon me, Ellorn, but do I sense disconcertment? I asked with a smile.

"What? No – get lost", he replied, half joking.

The others had already adorned the parachutes when Urc looked around. We all starred back at him. After a long sigh he also outfitted one of the chutes.

The Parvaque slowed to a loitering flight adequate for skydiving. Bau pulled a large lever on the side of the cargo door. The wind rushed in, piercing the relative quiet and mechanical hum of the hold with a sudden shout.

"Ready?" Bau shouted back. We all signalled our readiness and he leapt out immediately after. I, secondly, ran for the door and took the plunge, the others followed.

* * *

><p>I had only done this once before, back in basic training. Any other anti-gravity or high velocity training (with this coming under that remit) was done in a variety of drawn-out simulations and with theoretical examinations.<p>

Of course it could not compare to the verisimilitude of the real thing. The abrupt quickening blitz of the air, its charge and the hurry of the dive. All in comparative silence. The sound of the air resistance was diminished by the encapsulation of our full-body suits and helmets.

Bau took point of the mass sky-dive, directing as to our landing zone. To have a lower chance of being seen, we would have to pull the chutes at the last second. The suspense of this was painful.

We were getting closer, and closer, the clouds past like lightning and then the facility was suddenly in view. Once a small block of grey, then a large square of granite, then a bastion.

Now within earshot we wanted to pull the chutes, but Bau was still falling with knife-point precision. I waited anxiously for his signal.

"Come ON! NOW BAU!" Screamed Urc over his radio.

With a laugh Bau pulled his chute, Urc following promptly. Everyone pulled the cords of their parachutes in stylised synchronisation, and slowed before the impending ground.

With a series of thumps we landed in close proximity of each other and rapidly collected the chutes, collating them in a neat pile.

'Raldin Cortannal Energy', said a large sign over the door of the concrete block in front of us. A small independent salarian mining company based in the Terminus Systems.

Bau indicated the small door that acted as a back entrance.

"I've already sent a layout and plan of attack to your omni-tools", Bau whispered over radio. "We will send in scanning drones to detect the location of the hostages – they are likely in the storage rooms in sector..."

BANG!

A shot ringed out from the direction of the roof, then more, and then quite speedily a whole barrage. Somehow they had noticed us, and responded in kind.

"To cover! NOW!", Warric shouted.

We sprung and ran behind the vehicles and canisters and crates scattered around the boundary. We had lost our needed element of surprise and now we where grounded.

Darrix was saddled next to me, obvious anger behind his visor. A bullet narrowly missed our position with a hiss. He shot back quickly with a glance – the explosion of his shot pushing back a trooper at the door. They had suspiciously more numbers than we had thought.

Everyone retaliated with a few shots, but we could hardly keep this up. There was no significant point of weakness, and their numbers would eventually wear us down.

A grenade, well thrown from Narra, landed on the roof afar accommodated with a few shouts and moans of death.

In spite of our skill, determination, experience, or prowess, we were still struggling. Gilaren was tugged back by Warric as he had peered around the corner. He saved him from a stray spatter of rifle fire. Bau was shouting orders in every direction, but this seemed hopeless. Soon we would have to fall back.

* * *

><p>And at that, I had a plan.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

The Insider

Chapter 6

I must admit that my 'plan' here was probably as whimsical as my preconscious prompt to amble into the other hostage situation in the electronics store on the Citadel. It is a cliché to say the talents of the best shots, the most skilful fighters, are 'natural', but I cannot fathom any more reasonable explanation for my combat prowess. Maybe a simple resolution of a genetic trait, a mutation causing quickened reflexes, would have to suffice.

We would need to try and flank the mercs before being pushed against the fence of the facility by their numbers. The hostages were also now in deadly peril. We had lost the hand in usurping The Krimson's naïve ease – we were outnumbered, our position of insubstantial cover meant we could not enforce our combat expertise, and the mining workers' survival chances seemed ever more dismal. We had acted quickly as there was no sign of the workers outside, but intelligence from past missions had shown a penchant for hostages on The Krimsons' behalf. We could take comfort in that if they were to do anything, it would be likely be as a last resort.

Oddly and annoyingly, they had not talked before their own surprise shooting. How on Sur'Kesh had this happened!?

Though I had another disadvantage here. Unlike the rest of the salarians, I currently did not have a tactical cloaking system. I had noticed that Bau and Urc had, at the moment I stepped back slightly from my cover, decided to activate their cloaks. It would have been useful. but the lighting from sun reflected in a certain way that only gave a luminosity and glare to the system – meaning it had a shine that was more noticeable than desired. With that, I may lead to another tangential piece of exposition, an 'infodump', before I detail my next movements in this scene.

* * *

><p>Little is known, publicly, about the details of tactical cloaking. The very first 'reflective displacement module', was invented 350 years ago by the Salarian Union in a joint tenure with a now defunct asari private-military firm. The system was used in field experiments and some combat-zones to some effect, helping more as a damage boosting constituent than for prolonged cover, and it remained relatively primitive, closer to activeadaptive camouflage then 'invisibility', until a few years before the Relay 314 incident – with the quirk of insight from a young volus engineer. They reversed the polarity of a basic system to improve its power, and added an element that helped improve its reflective quality, which then improved its ability and versatility. He released the schematics onto the extranet with mixed results.  
>Thieves have become infamous and wars won by singular entities with the assistance of tactical cloak - yet its explanatory literature is limited.<p>

How a tactical clock module works is somewhat complicated, and thus a module is very expensive.

Working best with metal armour or body-suits, a small module activated via omni-tool creates a subtle lighting and energy-cover system that generates a shimmering distortion effect that works in tandem with microwaves and optical illusion, and improves the power output of weapons in the user's possession. As my profession is not that of a scientist, I will sadly not be able to provide the most elaborate of commentaries, but I can give an outline. A cloaking device almost warps the observer's perception of light and space itself, thus delivering diverted light to an observer right on time. As a problem of physics, the quandary of 'invisibility' was solved much longer before it became a reality of engineering – even by humans in the early 20th century (the 2020's). Cloaking would not be an easy trick to pull off without the presence of eezo motors and dark energy, but with thanks to that and the ridiculous amount of concentrated energy, and fiddling with the mechanics of mass effect fields, the technology can be worked into an 'engine' on a small scale, but only for a limited time.

'Cloaking', better put as merely 'hiding' on ships, entails the expiation of heat emissions or the deterrence of radar and tracking systems, which is ironically a bit easier.

* * *

><p>But to return: from the fire-fight I staggered backwards and tried to find an improved area of cover behind my previous placement. With fortune another place was there, close to the perimeter fence, so I could duck behind. I noticed Darrix look round, befuddled at my movement, but soon diverted back to the barrage. I could hardly see his face behind the visor of his armour, but confusion was obvious. On the map I enhanced on my omni-tool, I noticed something which was distorted by some pilers in the projected holo.<p>

A further look was needed, so I crawled like a vorcha along the barrier I had fell back to.

A fleet step revealed something, yet this was closer to dues ex machina than simple convenience, but revealing of our actual lack of knowledge. For all talk of "intelligence", we could not account for everything. I should probably feel humbled by that.

Behind the pilers and opaque covering, there was a small trench, damp underfoot, but one which led partially underground (and as I eventually found out after the intuition to run down it) and around the west side of the facility, almost cradling it.  
>I looked behind towards the green tint of the turians' armour. The only noticeable difference between the brothers was the darker shading and stripes of red on Warric's side.<p>

I called back but my radio fizzled miserably. It was dead. That was annoying; problematic. If I went back to help the squad, I would be back in the open again, risking fire, and would only be forced back into the embarrassing position.

Some of the most skilled soldiers alive being downtrodden by unfair surroundings and inadequate gun-fire. It showed the unpredictability of this play.

I tried to hail the Parvaque, but that was also to no avail, likewise. Typical.

I took the fool's chance and blundered into the damp of the trench. The moistness did not affect me within my suit, only discolouring the black of my feet with a dirty stain.

The trench was open, but dark - and my jet-black suit fitted well into the dimness.

I strode into a run, and was soon on the west side of of the grounds. I climbed up upon a ledge in the shady trench and peered over.

The topography was exemplary, a perfect flanking position to flank and snipe from. The only unfortunate puzzle was not having the rest of my squad here.

I prodded up my rifle and fired a shot. It hit a random merc who tumbled into a friend at his side. At this moment time seemed to slow. The air seemed thinner and my movements almost disembodied – yet in the fullest control. I could see clearly despite the glare of the local sun, and I was somehow relaxed - undeterred by the desperation of my company.

If I attacked more of the men and women at the front of this facility, chances would have been that the hostages inside would be despatched themselves. I could not alert my squad, who were now fortunately making some progress, but if they got through? Our main concern and mission brief was to stop The Krimson Moons' attempts at siphoning off needed minerals and materials from the mining complex here on Erinle, and detain, or otherwise expunge, this 'Paul Speare'. Though I was more concerned about the workers. A Spectre would do "whatever it takes", but was letting approximately 50 people die for the sake of some platinum and Element Zero really worth it?

Thus, I skipped forward to the facility, wriggling out of the top of the trench with a desperate climb. Slightly embarrassing; though no-one could see. The trench was covered by the line of obscuring pilers, which we had uncharacteristically looked over in our brief.

At the side, there was another entrance, one which we knew of from our prior intel. We thought we had an accurate approximation on their numbers, though there was more than we thought. I risked entering the mine.

The door was unlocked, a lack of foresight there, but fortunate for me. Inside was dim, similar to the trench. and lighted only with a few lamps lining the grey concrete walls. The gunfire, now sporadic, and penetrated more by shouting, what seemed like demands from both sides, could be heard even from behind the reinforced walls.

I had to work quickly. I raised my gun and started to run.

First door: nothing inside. I appeared to be in a long and narrow corridor, with doors intermittently decorating the dull faces of the enclosure. Second: nothing. Third: nothing.

With cowardly quickness I looked through the visor of the forth with a speedy glance.

They were there! The hostages. Some at least. Three men were guarding them, around 20, shuddering as much as the hostages themselves.

With that I looked at my rifle. I said it was classified, and it was for a reason. It still is. Who would have thought that STG had developed one of the best weapons in the galaxy? A semi-automatic assault rifle that doubled as an above-average sniper. Only 40 were ever created, and Bau had 4 of them. I turned a knob on its dull-white side and heard a neat click. Silenced mode.

I kicked the door, unlocked in the mercs' haste, and shot cleanly at the nearest hireling. Blood painted a hostage who squealed as the hostile fell. The others had no time to wheel around before I had shot them in the same manner. Three clean head-shots in under two seconds.

"Quiet!" I shouted at the hostages. "It is okay. Where are the others?"

"Down...down...the hall", quivered a blueish salarian worker in front of me. "Room D6."

"Thank you," I calmly replied.

I went to the merc I had shot first and fumbled at his belt, obtaining a key card.

The freed workers all looked fearfully at me.

"I will lock you in to keep you safe. Grab their weapons. I will be back later."

Some of them nodded silently. Three of them rose up and approached the dead, relieving them of their weapons. Bottom-range un-modded avengers.

I nodded myself, jogged back through the doorway, and closed the door. I slid the key card into its slot and a red light appeared on the door's front.

'Good. Hopefully they will be safe.' I thought.

I ambled ever forward to the door the trembling worker specified. The remaining hostages where in there – four guards stationed this time. The door was locked however, so it took a second to decrypt the lock with my omni-tool.

I took a more brutal approach.

1st step, ignite incineration module. The loitering woman it fired into hit the floor – rolling to try and extinguish it. I took a shot at another, he jumped in startled frenzy to avoid the shot, only to have the bullet collide into his neck. He languished in a breathless heap.

One of the hostages, a single asari amongst the sea of scared salarian faces, took advantage of the sudden attack to warp the other opponent against the wall. It was weak, but effective. He dropped awkwardly against the edge of a crate and by happen-stance, fell unconscious.

At this instant the last of the opposition had clutched hold of a rather sick looking captive, pointing the gun at his head. As would be natural, he was terrified.

"Don't move or I'll shoot!" the slightly fat human shrieked shrilly.

I looked around the room sort-of aimlessly. A ploy. I gestured that I was placing my rifle on the floor, only to lunge it in his direction from my waist and shoot him square, between the eyes. Lacking a helmet, he stood no chances.

He tumbled over, releasing the worried worker clumsily.

"I will lock you in for your safety. Wait." I said to the crowd. They did not quarrel, starring silently.

"Who are..." I heard the asari say as I left the room. I was sadly in no frame of mind to speak. I wanted to end this quickly. A Spectre and an elite squad of STG and turian veterans were still stranded. Somehow.

How was I able to circumvent this on my own while a Spectre was incapable?

The mine ran underneath the facility, but no-one was down there. Security feeds dotted the walls of the room the hostages were in, revealing nothing.

I proceeded towards the roof, which was easy to reach. A small outbuilding sat atop of it with the door leading from the only set of stairs. There was no gunfire.

What had happened?

I sneaked out of the door, peering around 90 degrees to the direction of four mercs left on the roof. There seemed to be a commander among them. It was not Speare.

"What are your demands?" Came the voice of a familiar salarian from below us. Out of sight.

"If you don't leave, the hostages will be killed. There is nothing you can do!" Said the stand-in commander.

"Where's Speare?" Bau asked, shouting.

"Not here!...anymore. Just go!"

"I don't think that is a possibility" was Bau's retort.

"Oh yeah? Who the fuck do you think you are frog!?"

"Me? Well, I am only..."

I had had enough. This whole debacle was laughable. It hardly made sense. We were undermined by lacking intel as we thought we were fine, our surprise was thrown out of the grounds, and now a Spectre was held back by the demands of some insignificant nobody.

* * *

><p>So I shot him.<p>

* * *

><p>He cascaded down the side of the building, falling over the ledge from whence he spoke. A blood trail the only testament to his presence on the roof.<p>

The other four turned around in mandatory shock, one reached to his omni-tool gargling questions on the situation. There was no response of course. His comrades were dead.

I sprung froward silently so as to bump the hilt of my _Alvorig_ blade into an enemy's face. Now fully extended, and with the competitor disorientated, I stabbed into his face with precision – piercing his visor.

I rolled to the side and incinerated another, causing a fumbling trip and faceplant upon the floor, and rose, leaping, to face the last man with the saber at his neck – backing him into the corner ledge of the roof. He make a significantly audible gulp.

"Fire!" shouted Bau, considering the commotion. More gunfire ensued. With the command despatched and the lackeys without order, the skilled operatives finally broke out of their embarrassment. They were now moving forwards, with the oppressors moving back. Falling as they did.

As for my next move, I merely pushed at the neck of my foe and he stumbled backwards off the roof. Before he did I grabbed his leg to stop his fall, but not to help him up.

Instead, I mounted the anxious body with both feet, quickly straddled the ledge, and pushed off.

I jumped from the roof with the merc screaming at my feet. We abruptly landed, the mercenary acting as a cushion for my fall, with a snap and a dying groan.

Leaving the hired gun to rot, I proceeded to aid in the bloodshed of the other would-be warriors.

Rounding the edge of the building, I raised my rifle again. A shot fired, and another. Three targets (yes, three), were disposed of in two shots. Evidently this gathered the remaining mercs' attention, but I still had some grenades. Quite opportune. They were useless from my previous location with the squadron – and I was never a good throw, unlike Narra, but now I was at a much better vantage. I activated all of the flash-bangs (5 altogether) on the small belt festooned across my chest, and removed the belt to swing it around.

With that it flew and landed in the middle of the mercenaries' locus.

The simple fact of the flash-explosions worked in their disorientation. Bau and the others were also surprised, but much better and skilled at taking this advantage. As they hastily leapt forward, I also did. Rushing into close quarters was surprisingly effective.

With instinct I grabbed the blade at my side again as I met my next opponent. The thuds of punches and spitters of point-blank gun fire reverberated around the facility grounds.

My next challenger was here. I slashed with a deliberate move and sliced her neck, startling myself. Another merc, a human male, tried to lunge in my direction with a fist, only to meet the air. I had slivered, nearly defying physics, under his arm, and stabbed back into his tricep with a crunch of metal.

Before he could let out the customary scream, I had punched the sabre into his throat with an overly-extravagant flourish. Bau was at my heel but had stopped in his tracks at this indulgent, egotistic spectacle.

A flip backwards caught another vagrant merc as I landed - the sword pronged into the knee-cap, exploiting the weakness of the armour with an freakish quickness. It entered with a satisfying pop and a muffled gasp of pain. I extracted the saber from the man's leg and threw it at what I sensed behind me (while winding the man his a scientific punch of my omni-tool at the sternum, the kinetic barriers buzzing).

Urc had to duck down as the weapon shot in his direction - impaling the hostile at his side.

Urc looked up from his scrambled grounded position and had the intuitive sense to kick upwards at the blade – in frustration at myself more than for the need to despatch the adversary.

Nonetheless it was effective as it dislodged itself in a jagged motion, along with a sample of the human's flesh tissue.

I burst forward again, obtained the saber, and ran around to another target, jabbing it into a startled eye of another antagonist.

The gunfire stopped with a sudden quiet; I looked around from my locale. The 14 eyes of the squad starred at me, some jaws dropped, adjacent to otherwise astonished looks at my videogamey display.

* * *

><p>"I...I am not sure how I did that." I remember saying.<p>

"Pfft...Show-off", Darrix said as he plodded over and kicked at the door.

"How in the name of the spirits did that happen!?" asked Warric, exasperated.

The only answer he received was discontent shrugs and shakes of the head.

Bau only smiled.

* * *

><p>The rest of the mission was routine. All the hostiles were eliminated. The hostages were released from their safe and temporary incarceration. A few conversations ensued about what had happened. How had The Krimsons infiltrated the facility? Where was Speare?<p>

The workers did not seem fussed about needing to gather the bodies. We did our own sweep first and obtained any omni-tools and transmitters for analysis of communications.

Ending the monotony we hailed the Parvaque (using a willing-worker's radio after a minute of awkward tuning to our frequency) and bided a friendly farewell to the freed miners and staff.

* * *

><p>Now it was time for a serious debrief.<p> 


End file.
